Session
by La Flamingo
Summary: First off, he’s never done this before, and it’s really uncomfortable and he’d really appreciate it if you could turn off the recorder. Implied T/P; slight movieverse spoilers
1. Session I

**Cowering disclaimer: **Usually, I'm a DC chica, but Marvel always has the tendency to create badass characters they don't know what to do with. So I do my own fiddling and stuff.

* * *

First off, he's never done this before, and it's really uncomfortable and he'd really appreciate it if you could turn off the recorder.

"Can you do that?"

"Sure," you say, reaching a hand up to the recorder perched on the armrest. You clearly turn it off – show that the recording button is red and hold is in the "off" position – then place the machine on the desk behind you.

"You're still writing," he notes suspiciously, and you respond, "yes, I am."

"Could you stop that, too?"

This isn't new, and it's not necessarily welcome. You tell him, "Mr. Stark, it would be better for all of us if there is some indication of you being here. "

He shifts, Armani suit sliding over the leather couch opposite of you. There is a sharp anxiety clearly raking at him, but beneath all that, you can see the supercomputer at work behind the eyes, cataloguing everything and everything. He bites the inside of his cheek, sweeps the room and then blinks.

Bam. Problem solved. Solution found.

"You have a check with my name on it, right?"

And you nod slowly, aware of where his train of thought is shrieking at full speed.

"Checks mean you paid me, Mr. Stark, but it doesn't necessarily mean we were here. I write these notes not to embarrass you, but to figure out what we can talk about."

Another movement of unease. It takes you a second to realize that there are bruises on his face, however well-disguised they may be.

You forgot briefly that a week ago this man proclaimed to the world he was Iron Man. You're still not sure what that means, but if it _is _true and this man isn't completely insane, then it is correct to assume that Anthony Stark has battle scars and bruises.

You wonder who did his makeup. They did quite a good job.

_Focus. _The prodigal son is tapping a finger irritably on the cushion near his knee and the Board of Stark Industries has decreed that in order for Mr. Stark to keep his position on the Board, he has to go to a shrink for five visits.

You are that shrink. And you're being paid a shit load of money to do this. You presume that the wad of green serves both as an incentive to meet the Crazy Rich Guy as well as Keep Your Trap Shut or We Will Sue Your Ass to Kingdom Come.

There are no complaints; this money could pay for the Mustang's new exhaust manifold and an anniversary trip to Germany. The Wife will like that.

Stark stares at the notebook in your hand, the chicken-scratch. There is a quiet wariness behind his eyes, a focus that shows that something is slightly off-kilter with this man, no matter how nonchalant and charming he may try to come off.

Compromise. It's what you must do. You do not sigh like this man is a twelve-year old who's being difficult. You flick the cap back on the pen and look at Mr. Stark.

"Mr. Stark, if you truly feel uncomfortable with me writing anything down, then I won't write. Memory can serve me just as well."

He smiles then. Something three-quarters fake and maybe one-quarter real.

"How old are you?" he asks, and you hear the possible jab at your age.

"Not old enough to forget," you reply.

The smile loses more of its plastic feel, genuine amusement quietly leaking through. You both evaluate each other before Stark shakes his head. Waves a hand and leans back.

"Eh. Keep the notebook. You might need it."

Another deprecating poke at age. But you've been given permission to write.

Interesting. You chicken-scratch and Stark watches, still guarded but letting down a little bit of the armor.

"Thank you, Mr. Stark."

"Yeah." he says, still airy but there is that faint twang of tension – of being unsure.

There is small talk for ten minutes, a brief interlude of seriousness and a moment of silence. You ask him fairly harmless questions, nothing that will scratch at the dirt to find out what's underneath.

He relaxes on the subject of cars. Stiffens on the subject of artificial intelligence.

When the session is over in what seems to be a quick twenty minutes (and it was actually forty-five minutes – shocking), you recognize that time warps itself when one is dealing with truly complex people.

He does not give a specific date for when he will be in next, so you recommend two weeks, same time and place. He agrees, you give him a slip ("and this is just so, you know, we have an indication you were here" and he responds, "what, is this like my class pass or something?"). There is a shaking of hands and then him leaving the office, bodyguards stacked awkwardly out in the hallway like bulky domino pieces that have no hard-surface to arrange themselves on.

You stare down at your notepad and look up at the closed door.

You did not ask him about Iron Man.


	2. Session II

**A/N: **Chapter 2/5, since there are five sessions. Enjoy. Always critique if you find faults. :)

* * *

He comes back two weeks later, and he looks different.

He fidgets on the couch, alternating between what seems to be drumming with his feet and tapping with his fingers. The knot in the tie isn't a perfect Double Windsor – a little bit pouchy in the middle, off-center and clearly done last-minute.

No makeup. But you look at a hand and notice the scabbed knuckles and the scratches.

More small talk from both of you. You ask him about music, (dimly) recognize some of his favorites. Most of them you're oblivious to, though you have a feeling they consist of badly-screamed lyrics and thrashing guitar that your son used to listen to when he was "punk".

Stark asks you if the Carpenters are your favorite band (yet again with the age) and you shake your head, smile. You assure him that the Carpenters terrify you just as much as they probably terrify him.

Halfway through the session, something changes. A note in the air moves to minor, the room grows still and that off-kilter look is back in Mr. Stark's face. He stopped fidgeting ten minutes into the conversation, but now it's back. Not necessarily in full-force, but obvious enough that you can see it.

You wait for him to make the first move, because clearly he wants to.

"I hate falling," he spits after a moment – the words seemingly Heimliched up through the throat. "I – I hate it."

"Why?" You're not writing this down. You do not dare write this down, not when the man might be showing vulnerability.

He shakes his head, swallows.

"Something about your stomach crawling up your throat. About not being able to stop what's happening."

You write this down, because something tells you that it means more than what he's saying.

He watches you, but says nothing. Waiting.

There's a pause. You're trying to think of what to ask, what to give this man so that he can elaborate without giving away whatever he doesn't want to be known.

Then it occurs to you.

"Is this an emotional feeling, or physical?" It's a stupid question, and you know it, but you need some kind of – truth.

Stark's eyes shutter, and that caution is back, prowling. But he's plays his part well, shrugging it off and giving a 100 fake smile.

"You know what my company does?"

You watch him carefully, then respond.

"I used to."

"Used to." He repeats your statement like there's an inside joke, and suddenly you feel nervous. Both of you are still for a minute before he responds.

"We've been testing new aircraft designs," he says calmly.

"You have a license to fly?"

Yes, you're surprised – last time you read the paper, Tony Stark could barely drive a car without breaking speed limits and scaring young babies and children.

"Yeah," he reacts without missing a beat, and that makes you more uneasy than anything else.

"And you test your machines?"

A slight-tic pops up in his jaw.

"Yes."

This is a precarious balancing trick on a chessboard with holes, and you step forward cautiously.

"You had some problems?"

He nods this time. "Altitude adjustments and a new power routing system." A hand unconsciously does a sloppy circle to demonstrate 'error.' "Hit unexpected turbulence and the program jumped."

The tone is casual, the features attempting boredom and this-is-normal-hey-I-almost-died-today nonchalance.

But that tic in Stark's jaw is giving away the almost imperceptible note of fear.

You'd back down if you were in your right mind; if you knew that this man would keep coming for more than the required sessions you'd back off and let him be oblique and casual.

But you know that Anthony Stark will not be back once his five sessions are up. And you know it's highly unlikely that he will ever step into a psychologist's office again unless there is some kind of looming threat being held over his head.

So you ask him what you know he doesn't want to be asked.

"What happened?"

He doesn't expect that. The act he had cracks for a nanosecond, blase attitude hairline fracturing into shock and well-caged panic.

You're almost on a hole on your own chessboard and you know it.

But the question is already sprawled on the space between you and Mr. Anthony Stark has no other options.

He swallows, and a left foot skitters slightly on the (fake) Oriental carpet, as if it's

hunting for some invisible stain.

Silence smothers the room – suffocates it.

And then Stark scratches the back of his neck.

"I couldn't go up. The system wasn't responding and I was dropping."

"At what altitude?"

The left foot stabs at the carpet again.

"33,000 feet," he says, and though he attempts to speak normally, the number comes out softly, like saying it might cause something to break.

"How long did you fall?"

He shakes his head, partially chuckles.

The sound is bitter.

"How the hell should I know?" he snaps, and finally makes eye contact with you after staring off at random parts of the room for the past minute of the conversation.

"It was long enough to scare me." he continues, voice shaking only barely. "And it was long enough that I felt helpless."

Beat.

"I'm punching at buttons and I'm screaming commands and I _know _the math and I _know _what back-up units should be kicking in _now _and I have no fucking idea why nothing is happening and I'm trapped.

"Do you know that feeling?" and he's leaning forward now, forearms on knees and eyes dark, caught in something beyond the carpet, the couch, you and the office. "I'm sitting in a machine that's barely bigger than me and I am falling at a velocity that is fast enough to make a _crater _when I impact earth and I cannot do anything. I am at the mercy of my own work." He swallows.

"I'm at the mercy of myself."

The words finish him. His foot stops attacking the carpet and he leans back like he's just confessed a whole multitude of sins.

What can you say to this? How can you respond?

Truth is, you can't, and you know it. So you don't write anything on that notebook and for a minute you alternate your gaze between the paper and Anthony Stark.

"You're alive," you finally crack – not humorously. "You're here."

He shrugs, and the flash through his eyes shows someone decades older than thirty-nine.

"What does that mean?" he says, cynicism hovering on the surface. "I get a second chance, or another opportunity to die?"

You're in the spotlight now, and he's waiting to see what your move will be.

"It is up to you to decide," you reluctantly conclude. "Not me."

Silence. You stare at him, trying to figure out what step you'll take now and he slumps, focusing intently at the tie on his chest. He finally reaches up and bats at it, distracted.

"My assistant was angry at me," he confesses.

He's already moved past that critical point of honesty and has dropped back into small-talk routine.

You have no other option but to adapt.

"Why?"

The tie flops like a half-dead snake, and you find yourself watching it.

A shrug. He glances up briefly.

"She doesn't like when I risk my life like this. It --" And he gropes, searching for

words, "I think it scares her."

"What did she do after your – " looking for the appropriate word "– mishap?"

Mr. Stark smirks at 'mishap,' probably finding yet another inside joke that you have no urge to really understand.

He grows serious again.

"She yelled at me," he says, and just as quickly as he looked like he was sneering he looks almost guilty. "She didn't talk to me for the rest of the day except to make me sign stuff and tell me of my schedule for today."

You write this down. It's muffled, but the affection is evident. There's more to the relationship than what meets first appearance.

Stark doesn't look up to glance at your scribbling, still entranced by the tie-flopping.

"Is that why your knot is –" and just as fast as he amused himself with playing with a tie he's staring at you almost defensively – "um, not perfect?"

The tie freezes. Stark tries to arch his neck back to look at the knot and then glances over at you, suddenly hurt.

"Is it really that bad?" Still trying to crane his neck, he attempts to pull the tie up and somehow manage to get a look at the knot.

You shake your head and try not to smile, but it's hard.

"It's not terrible," you say (even though your son could do better when he was nine years old), "but it lacks the usual appearance."

"That's a nice way of saying it looks like shit."

You're still trying hard not to smile.

"Maybe."

He narrows his eyes but smiles. Briefly.

The appointment ends ten minutes early because you both agree that enough was said today.

The bodyguards still look awkward in the hallway.

* * *

You step into an elevator five days after Mr. Stark's appointment and when the elevator hiccups slightly on the 30th floor, you hear a cable tear with a blood-freezing _snap_ and know that you're falling, encased in a metal box. Plummeting to death.

You blink, and the image is gone.

But your hands are shaking.


	3. Session III

He doesn't come in for the third appointment. You wonder if maybe he forgot it, if his assistant for some reason didn't give him a reminder (and then you shake your head, because you've talked to Virginia Potts and heard the rigid authority with which she conducts her life and Mr. Stark's) but that doesn't seem right, so then you turn on the television.

Breaking News: Three gunmen storm Stark Industries headquarters. Hostage situation. Number of injured or dead is unknown.

Details are sketchy, reports scattered and likely unreliable. You can only watch for three minutes as the reporter repeats herself over and over and the facts don't get any better and the situation doesn't change and there are screams from inside the building before you turn it off.

Turn it off and look away and hope for the best.

* * *

That evening, the Wife makes an excellent diner of meatloaf, potatoes and green beans and observes that you seem distracted.

You shake it off and reassure her that you're fine.

Once dinner is done, though, you rush over to the television (a miracle; you haven't actually glanced at a t.v. in probably five years) and tune-in to the news.

They say that Iron Man never came, but when SWAT stormed the building, there were nineteen people dead, twenty-seven people wounded and countless others shaken to the bone. Frightened out of their wits.

The gunmen were ex-employees of Stark Industries, laid-off in a reactive measure following Anthony Stark's untimely and unwise announcement that the company would no longer dabble in weapons manufacturing.

They had wanted some kind of retribution for their loss.

* * *

Virginia Potts calls on Friday at exactly 10:00AM – three days after the situation at Stark Industries and Anthony Stark's missed appointment.

Her voice is brisk and orderly (as always), but you've spent too many years doing what you do not to recognize the strain as she informs you that "Mr. Stark would like to reschedule an appointment today around four o'clock, if you have an opening."

You look at the planner and, actually, no, you have an old film director coming in who is batshit crazy and deserves to be in a mental institution. He is only here because he thinks you are the kind of guy who will prescribe him any drugs to make him happy; unfortunately for him, you're not the typical Los Angeles shrink and you will not prescribe drugs. And he hasn't paid for the last two sessions.

So you tell Virginia Potts as warmly as you can that "Four o'clock is no problem."

She is mildly suspicious by this. Carefully shocked. But she acts as any excellent secretary will and thanks you and reassures you that Mr. Stark will be on time, and he apologizes for his no-show on Tuesday.

You exchange the usual pleasantries, and she hangs up.

* * *

Anthony Stark comes in at four o'clock. The tie is perfect but he is bruised beyond makeup repair and when he walks over to shake your hand, you can see a limp.

He sits on the couch and winces.

You wait for a moment before speaking, clearing your throat and shifting the notepad to one knee.

"How are you?" you ask him.

He raises an eyebrow, and it's clear that he's actually irritated by the question.

"How does it look?" he snarls, and the anger in his voice is real.

You bite the inside of your lip for a moment before being honest.

"Like you were in a fight."

He stares at you, unblinking. "That's the truth."

Full-blown, unabashed honesty . You are instantly wary, and he notices.

"You're surprised," he observes.

There's no way you can avoid this. "Yes."

You're not going to skirt away from what's clear to see. You're not going to lie and engage in fighting him.

Stark realizes this, and he blinks and swallows, stealing a look down at the carpet.

The room is quiet save the ticking of a clock for about five minutes. You sit back in your chair and hold back at doing anything.

The room is interrupted by the dry sound of a throat being cleared.

"You watch the news?" he asks.

"Not much." And you shake your head. "It's been five years since I actually sat down in front of a t.v."

A smirk flashes across his face. "You _are _old-fashioned." he says.

In response you try a Parisian shrug and only end up looking stupid. "I just see that the news doesn't have the tendency to change too often." You pause. "Different places, different time, but the basic story is constant."

He cocks his head slightly, eyes glittering.

"Are you an in-closet cynic, Doc?"

You shoot him a look. "No. But --" and your attempt at humor is more for you than him, "being old, I've seen a lot."

The quicksilver smile appears, vanishes. And then he's serious again.

"You hear the news recently?"

He's talking about the shooting at his company's headquarters. Slowly but surely circled the subject of the day and carefully moved towards it.

"Yes," you say. "I did."

This time he cracks his knuckles. The pop is explosive, almost obscene and he looks sheepish for a second before continuing.

"My assistant was in there," he says, slowly. The words sound painful and forced. "She – she was in the conference room."

Your mouth goes dry.

Seven of the people dead were in conference room B240. While gunmen one and two took on the main floor, the third gunman carefully crept upstairs before the real shooting began and opened fire on the first room he saw.

You can imagine it without having Mr. Stark explain anything: coffee cups shattering and splintering across a wooden conference table, glass becoming shrapnel as people instinctively crouched low, knocked down their seats and desperately tried to crawl away from whatever was trying to kill them.

There were probably blinds in the room, and bullets began to tear at them like the rabid teeth of some monster, shredding the fabric with the violence that was killing people throughout the room.

Bullets sixteen and seventeen killed Alex Kerhwin, powerful Board member and known for being a bastard. He had just had to pull his mother off life-support.

Bullet twenty-five killed Franklin Hopkins. A grandfather who was eagerly awaiting for the arrival of his third grandchild.

The list went on as the spent rounds falling onto the carpet multiplied. And Virginia Potts probably crouched in a corner, attempting to sink into the wall or the carpet and hide from the violence that was blossoming in various shades of red in front of her eyes.

"Is she alright?" you finally ask, forcing away the image sprayed across your eye like internal graffiti.

He nods vigorously and swallows again.

"Yeah."

Pause.

"I mean..." And a hand is up as he tries to articulate what he's trying to say, "Physically she's fine, but mentally..."

The sentence fades off. Consciously, Mr. Stark is battling the urge to fidget.

He loses, and the fingers of his left hand quietly begin tapping on his knee.

"Something happens when you see people die," he says, softly. "It – it changes things."

"How?"

Stupid question. You know how.

His head bobs for a second, and when he makes eye contact with you it's obvious he's somewhere else.

"I – " Stops. Falters. Tries again. "I saw this kid, probably nineteen."

The foot starts tapping.

"He told me to stay down, but when he stepped out of the Humvee..."

Stark bites his lip and shakes his head.

"One round sprayed him across the doors and windows like he was nothing. Nineteen years old, this dorky kid had just asked if he could take a picture with me."

He stares up at you, hard, and his eyes reflect eerily in the sunlit confines of the room.

"How does that fucking work?" he asks, voice trembling. "Why was it _so _easy to destroy something that took nineteen years to create? He just got out of high school and joined the Marines, and he's dead. Just like that. Blink of an eye and he's gone."

He stares at some spot over your shoulder for a moment, slowly sweeps his gaze back to yours."We're fragile creatures, Doc. More fragile than we ever like to tell ourselves."

You both are quiet after this – you remaining too shaken to respond clearly and Stark is clearly exhausted and looking drained.

You open your mouth to say something. Stop. Close it. Try again.

"It is inevitable." You understand clearly that what you're saying isn't what should be said. But you have no idea what else to say. What to do that would explain why life and death work the way they do.

No one knows why. No one ever will.

"Doesn't make it right or wrong, but it happens that way."

"What way?" and he sounds almost furious at how you're responding.

You shrug. "Just _that _way. I can't explain it, Mr. Stark – you know that. I can't make it logical or clear. But it happens how it happens, regardless of what we do and try."

"It's cruel," he says, quiet.

"Yes," you agree. "It is."

The silence isn't as suffocating this time, but it certainly isn't comfortable. After two minutes, Mr. Stark speaks.

"Someone died in your family," he says, and it's not a question but a statement. He's seen something in your reaction to death, and he's come to conclusions with frightening accuracy.

You shouldn't tell him because ultimately these visits are about him, not you.

At this point, though, you don't feel like the shrink asomuch the person that just listens. Gone is the college, the degree, the notebook and even psychoanalysis. You're just the guy in the chair listening to the guy on the couch and trying to figure out the profound truth of the statements being said.

"Yeah," you say. "My daughter."

This honesty is surprising, and he freezes like he's trying to understand what you've just admitted to.

"How?"

It's hard, here. It's always been hard to say it, even twenty years after she died and the

world moved on.

"Rape and murder," you say. Your voice no longer shakes and your eyes don't get watery but it hurts. It does. "She was walking home from an off-campus party and someone took her down."

Stark has become strangely still.

"And did anyone catch who did it?"

You shake your head. "No. Case went cold."

He doesn't move for a minute. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too," you say, and the light shining on you in this conversation flickers (thank God) and dies.

He seems more thoughtful after your confession, fidgeting only briefly with his tie before moving to get comfortable on the couch, leaning back and crossing his legs at the ankles. It's clear that he's in pain, even though he tries to hide it.

You say nothing.

"I worry about her," he blurts, suddenly enamored with the tip of his right shoe.

"Who?"

Irritation flickers briefly in his eyes as he glances up. "My assistant."

"Virginia Potts?"

"Pepper Potts," he corrects absently. "No one really calls her Virginia."

Stark's right foot lazily moves back and forth and he watches it, seemingly entranced.

"Why are you worried?"

He sucks on the inside of a cheek, jerks his head side-to-side in a halting refusal to really answer the question.

"I wasn't there when the shooting broke out," he admits reluctantly.

"Why not?" and your faithful notebook is back. He sees this and his caution returns.

"There were some overseas relations I had to take care of in person." he elaborates, still focusing on your notebook. "I left early in the morning – five or six. Potts usually stays here to take care of business that otherwise I cannot attend to."

This break is your cue to ask a question, but you're beginning to learn that sometimes the best thing to do with Anthony Stark is simply sit back and let him talk. It takes him another lumbering minute to begin again.

"She could've died on Tuesday." When he looks up at you, his eyes are pitch and light doesn't seem to be entering them properly. "It was by pure luck and her diving into a corner that saved her life."

He swallows, moves again on the couch and abruptly his right foot isn't nodding left and right. Eyes focus outside the window at the surprisingly blustery Los Angeles skyline.

"The night of that reactor shut-down at one of the labs, Pepper was in the building." A short laugh comes out almost as a noise of disbelief. "So many things could've gone wrong."

"Didn't they already?" You've read news reports and you have a partially compiled folder given to you by the Board of Stark Industries in regards to the Arc Reactor malfunction that leveled the building. By all accounts, the entire thing _had _gone wrong; safeties had failed, and an incredibly valuable piece of technology self-destructed. Anthony Stark himself had been rushed to a hospital with internal bleeding, a concussion and cracked ribs. He was barely saved from cardiac arrest.

Stark snorts. "You don't understand," he says, and though the man has never contemptuous before, you hear a hint of disdain in his voice as he points a finger at

you. "An entire building was demolished by the most advanced energy source in the world, and my assistant came out with some bruises and scratches, mild burns, damage to her ear drums and a sprained ankle. That is freakish. It is almost unreal."

You're put-off by his tone of voice and tilt your head slightly. "Are you mad by this?"

"No!" He barks, shaking his head vehemently. "God, no. I'm _grateful_."

"Then what's the problem?"

He bites his lip, eyes wandering. A foot starts drumming unconsciously on the carpet.

"She won't always be lucky," he says softly. "Something will go wrong one day and she's going to get hurt, badly."

He focuses on you and smiles darkly. "I know this from personal experience."

The grin erases itself and he looks at the bookshelf behind your desk. Lost again in a world that you're not even sure you want to get near.

"I worry that I will be gone – again – when something happens. I worry that there might be a shooting or even a bombing or something unreal and Potts won't be as lucky as she has been before.

"We're fragile creatures, Doc." His gaze is back on yours and though it's distracted, there is an intensity in it that tells you he's _here_, now, focusing. "I've said it before but we both know how true it is. It doesn't take much of anything for someone to die."

You're trying to write as well as listen and it's getting surprisingly hard to do both so you stop writing. And you look up.

"You'd hold yourself accountable if something happened to her?"

His gaze is stony. Defensive.

"Yes."

"Why?" you ask.

A block of barely-restrained protectiveness and exasperation lands on his face.

You don't want to agitate Mr. Stark. Don't want to piss him off or ask redundant questions that waste both of your time. But as much as the man tells you truths he tells them only partially to you, expecting you not to pry open the can more than a sliver of an inch. He _is _the wealthy rich guy – if you really wanted to, you could easily just pretend he goes to all his sessions and let him run off. You have money, he has things he wants to do – both of you could easily pretend you're both here and no one would be the wiser.

But you're not built that way. And you know better.

He doesn't stutter or trip his way through his answer, but it's apparent that he's struggling to find the right words for how he feels without making you scribble furiously on your dreaded notepad ( he hates that – it's become more than clear by now).

"Because Pepper Potts shouldn't have to deal with violence. Because she's the closest thing I have to family and she's the only reason I haven't died – by my own hand or otherwise.

"Because she's important, Doc. She's the most important thing I have in my life." He straightens on the couch and suddenly you realize how formidable this man can be when he wants to. "Do you understand something like that?"

There is a disturbing clarity in his stare – just like the unbalanced gaze that has frequented Anthony Stark throughout the sessions, the lucidity that sometimes breaks through in those brief seconds of somber reality and truth can be just as unnerving and shocking.

You're about to actually rise to his bait, respond in kind and tell him, "kid, I've seen more shit than you think," but a loud shriek pulls both of you out of sync, and you jump, glaring towards the timer sitting on your deceptively neat (and cleaning it originally took three days) oak desk.

You blink. Inhale slowly and open your mouth.

"Time's up," you inform him.

* * *

Neither of you exchange pleasantries when Mr. Stark leaves, too caught up in your own little solar systems with your own little planets and problems.

You're on Venus with its acid clouds and suffocating atmosphere and hellish heat, frantically running to and fro in an attempt to find shelter and _hide _from the burning.

Curiously, you wonder what planet Mr. Stark would be on.


	4. Session IV

**A/N: **Enormous thanks to **Loopholes**, **Tiresius69, Terin, Amonitrate, Lucy, Santoryuu-Zoro, Joani, La Phoenix, The 85th Writer, **and **kitten 2399**; your glowing reviews really made my day and certainly provided impetus to finish this short. Thank you so much. :)

Enjoy.

* * *

He's ten minutes late and he's acting like an asshole.

It's not your place to say things like that, but it is the annoying reality of what's casually slouched in front of you. Gone is the serious, intense man from the last two sessions. In his place is a cocky, crude and abrasive brat who should've outgrown adolescent behavior probably twenty years ago.

You know why he's acting like this. Maybe it's because of this that when he asks you immature questions and brushes off the observations regarding the fact he isn't limping, you're not entirely getting ready to strangle Anthony Stark.

People like Mr. Stark come in all the time – truly agile, focused and thoughtful human beings who hide behind masks of stupidity, arrogance and blase indifference. But while most people who come in as jerk-offs leave actually decent and (somewhat) honest, Anthony Stark is afraid of giving away too much and leaving himself defenseless.

"How stupid do you think I am?" you ask, interrupting his tangent on a recent escape from a speeding ticket ("I was only going one-twenty – don't know what the officer's problem was" and he leered because the cop was likely a woman). Your voice does not rise like you are insulted or extremely aggravated by his attitude. Instead you sound genuinely curious about Mr. Stark's opinion of your intelligence.

He blinks, startled. "What?"

"How stupid do you think I am?" You repeat, serene.

The fountain pen given to you as a gift is slowly coagulating after months of hard use, but you're dancing from left-to-write on the notepad and taking stock of his notice.

He tries to laugh, but the sound is so pathetic that it dies partially in his throat.

"I don't understand."

Your smile is gentle. "Sure you do. How stupid do you think I am?"

His mask is slipping, glue unhinging. He attempts to smile this time, lighten up the load and come up with witty bitter (and it is surprising that he's not at the top of his game, clearly not used to acting like a complete prick anymore), but it isn't working.

And you keep writing.

"Doc," he starts, "You're old but you're not dumb."

"No?" The pen pauses, poised for more. His gaze flickers to it nervously, like he's frightened of what it might be saying on the paper.

Abruptly the charade shatters on the carpet and he's sharp. Pissed.

"What are you trying to pull?" he demands. There's some part of him that's fumbling around on the floor for his face, trying to put on the fake smile and the overly self-confident smirk, but it's too late. The bluff has been called and now his crappy hand is spilled across the table.

You shrug with the eternal patience of a man who's been around for a very, very long time and recognizes all the forms of deception.

"This isn't a joke," you remind him.

"What are you talking about?"

You straighten in your chair, move around to get comfortable and lean forward, eyebrows raised.

"I'm not stupid," you tell him, "and neither are you. Don't insult either of us by acting like something you're not."

"What if this is who I am?"

Jesus, he has no idea how many times you've heard people say that, thinking that they sounded cool and suave when in reality they appeared to have the intelligence and tact of twelve year-olds.

"You're not the first person to try to defend yourself with that argument," you inform him. "And you won't be the last."

"So you're saying I'm unoriginal?" He's injecting humor into the question, but it's clearly plastic.

You shake your head. "On the contrary – I'm saying your contention is weak. People have tried using that defense since the beginning of time and it never works."

"What if I make it work?"

You look over the frames of your glasses.

"You're brilliant, Mr. Stark, but you're human."

"Other people make it work."

Another shrug from you. You're pleased you're mastering the guise of indifference.

_'Bout time, old man. Sixty years old and you should be the master of withholding emotion. _

"Other people aren't you. You can't make it work."

"Why not?" And he's unconsciously jutting his jaw forward defensively, daring you to contradict him.

"Because you're a terrible actor." Stark twitches at this, appearing wounded. "Even if I stopped writing," and his gaze flickers back to the notebook, dislike clear, "you can't erase what was said in the last two sessions."

"Maybe you'll forget."

Stark sounds like your daughter when she was sixteen and begging and pleading to go with Josh Mackenzie (who, in your omnipresent Dad knowledge thought the kid was a scumbag) to Prom. Her argument was like Swiss cheese and you both knew it, but you let her go anyway. Even when you'd find out from the Wife two days later that she broke up with Josh right after the Grand March due to the fact that the pervert tried to shove his hands down the front of your daughter's dress when she told him adamantly, "no."

You didn't tell her "I told you so," though God knows you wanted to. Instead, you let her sulk around the house for a few days before coming to you face-to-face and telling you, mumbling, that she broke up with Josh because he was a jerk. You gave her a hug and told her that everyone makes mistakes – including her.

Your smile is dry. "Maybe I won't."

"Maybe you will," he responds, and you're struck almost dumb by the immaturity of this argument. A look down at your wristwatch tells you that you still have a half-an hour of this session, but you're not going to let this madness go on that far.

Exhaling audibly, you lean back in the chair for a moment and roll your neck, relishing the _crack _of vertebrae realigning themselves.

"I'll tell you what," you say after a moment of jumpy silence. "You can leave right now if you think this is a waste of your time."

He watches you, guarded.

"I can pretend we had a really meaningful conversation today," you assure him. "It's not like the Board gets progress reports as to how you're doing after each of the sessions. I'm bound by my patient/doctor confidentiality agreement to keep my trap shut, and I've already been paid for all of this.

"So if you really want to go because something else is on your mind, then go." You're not hurt, irritated or even angry, and you have a strong feeling that the fact you're not responding to Mr. Stark like he wants you to is making him uneasy. His face is composed into a blank slate even though his eyes show that he is wary of what you're proposing, and he remains cautiously still on the couch.

You continue. "I don't see the logic in wasting time – especially yours. You're a very important man and I imagine that the forty-minutes you spend in here, plus the fifteen extra traffic minutes and maybe munchie breaks probably takes up a considerable chunk of the day that could be used for something else."

He's silent for a moment, staring at you like he's trying to figure out your angle. Finally, though, he speaks, and the confession is grudging.

"You're irritating when you're condescending," he tells you.

You wait for more but that's it, so after a beat you reply, "so are you."

He stirs from the motionless position he had and leans back even more on the couch,

slumping.

"Is this what you did to your kids?"

Why lie to him? It is _exactly _what you did to your children, though heaven knows it took years to refine the art.

"Yup."

"It pisses me off."

You nod. "That's kind of the point."

"Why?"

"Because, personally, I don't like your bullshit."

"Did you just say bullshit?" and he sounds pleasantly shocked, like he's seeing more to the Great Shrink than ever before.

"Yes, Mr. Stark."

"Wow. Clearly, these sessions are exposing more in both of us than I thought possible."

"Maybe they are." You're clearly making reference to his earlier behavior and he knows it. An almost imperceptible wince flashes across his face and he scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed.

A long pause walks between you two, and you shoo it away.

"I'm serious about what I said, Mr. Stark. We can talk about trivialities and waste both our time, we can do something productive or we can do nothing at all. This is your time and money down the drain; ultimately my problems don't matter."

He's sitting on this, considering. Focus darts from the notebook in your hand to you to the clock and back to the tie lying lazily on his chest. All things seem to fascinate him briefly before he realizes what you're saying.

Obviously, the choices put in front of him are making him uncomfortable.

"I don't want to talk today," he admits.

"Why not?"

His head shakes slightly and he bites the inside of his cheek.

"Not in the right mind set for it. Not in the right mood for it."

"There's a mood for therapy?"

He glares at you like you're being a smart ass (and yeah, you are, but you're trying to make a point and you both recognize that).

"Yes, there is."

"What?"

He looks like he's attempting to figure out his argument.

"Anything but what I'm feeling now."

"And how are you feeling?"

The glare is growing more obvious. More pissed off.

"You sound like one of those shrinks I try to avoid like the plague." he says, accusingly. "I miss my other shrink."

"I'm just asking questions, Mr. Stark."

"No," he corrects, "you're being a jerk. I hate when psychologists ask you stupid, redundant questions like they actually think they're doing you some good. Just because you ask questions for clarification doesn't mean you're helping someone see something any better. You're just acting arrogant." He pauses for a moment before mumbling, "It's too much Freudian crap and it's really irritating."

This makes you smile, even though it shouldn't; you heard the same thing from your son when he was taking psychology in high school. You didn't like Freud for a long time, and even now, after thirty years of psychology, there are aspects of the man's work that irk you to no end.

Of course, you're not going to tell Mr. Stark that – he's at a point where he's speaking just to avoid you from asking any questions.

He'll have to stop eventually. Both of you understand this, though Stark is running like hell in the opposite direction.

So you wait. As any psychologist, old geezer and father has the ability to do, you lean back and wait for Mr. Stark to come around.

It takes him ten minutes – you give him props for that. But finally his yammering about how much he hates Jung and Freud and goddammit, would you _stop _writing in that stupid notebook and hey, he worked on the Saleen last night winds down to silence and a percussion session between his feet and his fingers.

"I have a bitch of a migraine right now," he says, and his hands take a break from drumming to reaches up and frantically rub at the temples.

"Why's that?"

He opens his mouth to give a smart ass response, then stops. Mumbles.

"Drank last night."

He appeared guilty like this in your second session – but unlike then, when the guilt was directed towards someone worrying about him there is now a note of real shame in his voice.

You are slightly astonished. Maybe even actually shocked. Because while you never really paid attention to the god-awful television and those ridiculous "entertainment" shows, you did periodically catch a glimpse of columns in the_ Los Angeles Times_ briefly addressing which famous, wealthy person got a DUI this week, or who was found passed out in some random, absurd place thirty miles from their home.

Stark appeared there. Probably three or four times, all of which were before his kidnaping in Afghanistan. Afterwards, you weren't really quite sure (and honestly you didn't really care – celebrity gossip never quite appealed to you) if Anthony Stark had stopped drinking. Experience with PTSD has taught you more than enough that victims suffer frequently from depression and mood swings – both they believe can be alleviated by booze and drugs. Sure, you didn't _know _if Mr. Stark had PTSD, but not for a minute did you think that the man might have stopped trying to go the way of the playboy. It was just naturally assumed that while he might've changed, old habits would cling as irritating lint has the tendency to do.

But he sounds uncomfortable. Unhappy.

"Why?" you ask him.

The percussion jam between his fingers and feet is in earnest as he looks from side to side for the answer. Twenty seconds pass, then half a minute. Stark doesn't look panicked but the way his shoulders tense shows caginess.

"I couldn't sleep well," he admits. "We've had trouble with stock, some of the prototype designs are crapping out and it just was a bad day."

Forty seconds rigidly tick by on the brushed stainless steel clock above the doorway. You steal a quick glance towards your window at the bruised and angry sky outside – waiting for any instigation to start a storm.

Suddenly the tapping sounds emanating from Stark stop.

"I've been having nightmares," he says, quietly. The way he watches you and the notebook gives you the impression that he's almost frightened of what you might write down.

You don't write a thing, and he continues.

"They went a way for a little while, when I got back home," and he doesn't tap, though he fidgets, "but I was keeping myself really occupied."

"What are you doing now?"

He snorts derisively, and you recognize that the contempt is directed towards himself.

"I haven't been doing anything," he says. "I go down to my garage to draw up blueprints and when it's all over I haven't done shit."

Pause.

"I mean – I'm working but it doesn't seem to be going anywhere." He scratches the bridge of his nose, frowns.

"The three months I got back home were the most productive in my life. Now it just –" and a hand flutters, as if it's flying away, "is routine."

Coming from the highly hailed mechanical prodigy, there is something truly odd about what is being said. To some extent, you understand perfectly; the _need _to keep digging deeper and deeper just to break loose from whatever is chasing you is powerful and frequently unavoidable, and you can recognize quite clearly why Stark would do the same – why he would build a flying, walking weapon and use it just to keep the demons at bay.

But you've never thought (and this _is _blind ignorance on your part, you damn old fool) that a genius like Stark would hit rock bottom -- that the body would push itself to start running but the mind would remain rooted in place, stubborn and unwilling.

You wonder: what _was _he expecting from all this? This crusade, this insatiable desire to clean his hands and his company of the tattoo of bloodshed that was burned into the bone?

You have to ask him, and you do. "What were you expecting?"

He jumps at this, blinks. The question startles him and for a moment his jaw works like he's searching through the words to say. Finally his head shakes slightly, almost in confusion.

"I don't know." he says, biting the inside of a cheek again. "Maybe some kind of pathway that was just _there _for the taking. Something that was so clear I could see it for miles."

You watch him, curious, but it's obvious that he sees in your eyes isn't exactly what he's looking for.

"You don't understand," he says, and leans forward, eyes bright but with the eerie appearance of something important missing. "When I was gone –"

He never calls it Afghanistan, you realize suddenly. He never, ever calls where he was what it was; it's always some vague place from which he was returning or going.

"– everything changed. Um..." He sees you scribble 'Afghanistan' on the notepad and falters. "It just –" nose scratch "–shit."

You stop completely and stare at him, waiting.

"This is awkward, you know?"

Yes; earlier conversations have been focused from the start, uninterrupted and – while reluctant of true confession – have had some kind of boundary that Stark planned and stepped over on the own.

He's doing that now. He's telling you about Afghanistan. But he's nervous.

Throat-clear. Stark tries again.

"They paraded me around to watch the entire empire I created shown to me like some great, fucked-up joke._ My _weapons – the machinery _I _designed with the idea that it would be in safe hands at all times – killed the kid, woman and man who were supposed to protect me." He swallows; you notice his hands are shaking almost imperceptibly. "It killed the man who saved my life. God knows how many villagers it killed. But _I _created it, and I'd been blind to what was right in front of me the entire time."

Eyes now drift off to a point beyond your shoulder. You guess he's staring at the portrait of the Rockies you have next to the bookshelf.

"That changed how I looked at everything." His gaze is slowly coming back to you, but it's taking its time. "There was this _focus_, and I just knew, I _knew_, what I had to do."

Pause, and disgust grows on his face.

"I've lost that," he says, quietly disdainful. "I'm going through the motions but I can't _see _what's in front of me and it's scaring the shit out of me."

Stark finally stares at you, dead-on, and he looks confused.

"It's not supposed to be like this," he says softly. "It saved my life in Afghanistan and it saved my assistant two months ago and it should be as clear as a bell.

"I don't like being lost." he mutters.

The conversation ends.

* * *

You look at a map after he leaves; drag out the ancient, AAA map that is curled into a random corner of a random drawer in your desk. You've had the damn thing since college – kept it as your "roadtrip guide" and decided never to get rid of it for the mere sake of nostalgia.

When you were nineteen years old, there was a romanticism in getting lost, of driving off into the horizon and letting the black river of asphalt and yellow stripes, never ending or beginning, take you wherever it wanted. You kept the map with you because you were, at heart, someone who always wanted to be in control, even when you _did _wander off the beaten trail.

Now you look at that old, ancient map and its scars of highways and creeks and rivers and feel only terror at the thought of driving off without a map.

There's something disconcerting about being lost when you don't want to be, and suddenly you understand that more brilliantly than you ever have in your life.


	5. Session V and Epilogue

**A/N: **Well, folks, it looks like we are nearing the end of what has been (for me) an incredibly intense, yet highly enjoyable trip. Thank you all of the amazing reviews I received from **Kadigan, Tiresius69, Super Chocolate Bear, the 85th Writer, Nami Star, Kitty2399, dulce-melos, amonitrate, rebirthfry, Don Juanita Triumphant **(highly entertaining name, by the way), **La Phoenix, **and** 4persephone. **It's been a pleasure writing for you guys and I hope sincerely you enjoyed this as much as I did.

As to continuations/other side stories? I don't think I could do it. 2nd person narrative is a quirky bird as it is, and I've learned from my own experiences that it's good in small, selective doses. Maybe if my muse becomes less ficky, or if I really come up with a good story will I continue something else, but for now, I have to say this probably looks like the end. Thank you for your support throughout the five chapters.

Hope you enjoy. :)

* * *

Five minutes early and he has a box with him.

You are suspicious, returning from down the hall with a cup of brackish (and bless Sophie's heart, the intern tries her best) coffee simmering in white Styrofoam. The bodyguards are not-so-discreetly stuffed into a corner of the corridor.

When Stark sees you, he pretends he wasn't idly puffing his cheeks out at the security camera and makes an about-face, raising his eyebrows in greeting.

You pause. Regard him carefully.

"Should I be worried?" you ask him, looking pointedly at the box.

He smiles, and it's genuine. "No, Doc. Nothing that will bite you."

"Uh-huh," Still disbelieving, you open the door, move to the side to let him in and then follow. Stark is already violently ripping into the box (an ugly, beat-up cardboard UHAUL thing and yes, you are very intrigued as to what the hell is going on right now).

By the time you sit down in your chair, there's a chess board resting on his lap.

You blink at the board, purse your lips and try to think of what is the appropriate response.

"Chess." you finally say.

He nods, still digging around in the box for chess pieces and setting them awkwardly on the couch. The black knight's nose instantly nudges the leather, the rook tilts to its side and the white queen topples completely, slowly rolling towards the edge of the cushion and the floor.

You sit wordlessly for a moment, watching the entire spectacle of Anthony Stark groping around a box, cursing softly and snatching at chess pieces before they fall to the floor. When all the pieces are out and Stark throws the box to the side of the couch, you begin to nod slowly and, yet again, attempt the proper reaction. Your mouth opens, and the voice box, accordion like, squeezes air.

"You want to play chess."

"Yup." and he actually seems like he's in an honestly good mood as he lunges abruptly across the couch to grab an errant pawn.

You swallow, shift in the chair

"Mr. Stark, I hope you're aware of who you're facing off against."

He carefully puts the pawn in the middle of the cushion next to him and looks up. A glitter of amusement lights in his eyes. "A secret chess master?"

"No. A man who regularly gets his butt kicked by his grandchildren."

He smiles, amusement growing.

"I'm probably the age of one of your kids," he notes. "Would that be as humiliating?"

"You have an IQ that surpasses more than half of the combined population of Los Angeles. This defeat would be incredibly embarrassing."

The smile has evolved into a full-on grin as he gingerly moves the chess board off his lap and walks with it towards the coffee table between you, setting the flimsy plastic thing down with a _clap _on highly polished surface. You pause as you watch the transporting of the chess pieces begin again, this time moving from the cushion to the coffee table. He arranges his side, then yours, but as he does so, he speaks.

"I'm not trying to avoid talking today," he says, and as quickly as the grin is present it's gone, replaced with a serious look when he glances towards you. "But I thought we'd try something different since this is the last time you'll probably ever see me."

"Outside of the newspaper and television?"

The smile he gives is a small and quietly sad one.

"Yeah."

"Well..." and you tilt your head to the side. Stark freezes in the middle of lining up the pawn defense, watching.

You shrug. "Fine with me."

The smile turns itself back on, and more quickly than before he sets up your pieces and begins looking around the room for something low to sit on.

"Behind you, next to the door," you tell him, pointing towards the ottoman. As he goes to get it, you hunt around for the small stool/chair thing you have hiding next to the bookshelf and the peace lily and carry it to the coffee table. Stark is already back, fidgeting with an expectant look on his face as you plunk the chair down.

You sit, and the chair groans.

He raises an eyebrow, and in response you look over the bridge of your glasses.

"Anything you want to say?"

He shakes his head, partially hiding the smirk. "Nope."

"Good."

A long pause. You survey the board for a moment, nodding carefully as you familiarize yourself with a terrain you haven't treaded in a long time.

Here's the secret: you let your grandchildren beat you. And for all the times you peg Anthony Stark as being absent-minded, you know damn well the man is probably fully aware of the facts and isn't falling for your "old, doddering fool" act.

You're actually quite good at chess. It was something you picked up from your father, and he picked up from the father before him. The family wasn't quite full of prodigies, but it had a plethora of alert, surprisingly strategic people who knew their way around a chess board. More frequently than not, you won many of the tournaments you signed up for throughout the childhood and college years.

The Wife jokes that before you met her, the tournament trophies were really the only ego-boosters you had. You kindly ignore her when she makes such statements.

Stark clears his throat. You move your focus from the chess pieces.

"So who starts?" you ask.

His eyes narrow briefly in suspicion, but within seconds the look is gone.

"Black goes first."

You look at the setup for a moment, try to stifle a smile.

"We don't have a timer," you say.

Stark rolls his eyes. "This is primitive, normal-people chess, Doc." He takes initiative, nudging one of the pawns on the right corner of his assembly forward. "I have a feeling you're just trying to postpone the inevitable."

"Umm..." yet again you're scanning the board, trying to figure out how long you can survive against the man with an IQ far above the 140 range. You pull out the left knight and wait. "That might be true."

He shakes his head, smiles as he scoots a rook forward. "I'm not falling for your ploy, Doc."

"No ploy. I am regularly served by my youngsters and great youngsters."

He seems exasperated as he glances up. "Every adult allows themselves to be beaten by their kids. This is the rule of being a grown-up."

Mildly shocked, you move the pawn to D3.

"Would you know this personally?"

A finger rests thoughtfully on the bishop before he flicks a finger at his first pawn.

"No," he says. "But when I was a kid, my father made it clear that when I played games with my younger cousins, I had to play nice. 'They're not like you, Tony,' he'd say. 'They're little and they just want to know what it's like to win.'" He makes a face. "The concept was difficult for me to get my head around for the longest time."

Stark pauses, waits as you make your move.

"It really sucked being a kid," he says, propping up a hand and resting his chin.

"How so?"

Stark takes your knight before continuing.

"Just being alone, I guess. I couldn't play with anyone my age because all they wanted to do was play with Tonka trucks and Hot Wheels and shit. There was one time – " he winces when you casually swipe a pawn "– when I was eight, and I tried talking to this nine-year old about school. She gave me the blankest look I've seen in my life and told me I was weird. Little bit of an ego deflater, even when you're an eight-year old prodigy."

"And the high schoolers?"

He shoots you an irritated look before somehow pulling the queen out from backstage.

"Teenagers find that really-smart little kid thing freaky as shit." he grumbles. "They're nice to you, sure, but in reality you frighten them more than anything else. Think about it: senior class of fucking '77 and there's this eight-year old sitting in on the Advanced Calculus class."

You slide the bishop up front and Stark stops for a moment, eyes flickering over the board.

"It was weird," he says, and that omnipotent queen is slowly but surely sauntering to the battlefield. "I hated it."

"And your father?"

Something resembling distaste flutters over his face.

"Dad told me to suck-up and deal with it. I had – " a hand lifts up to make quotation marks "– a 'responsibility' to do the best that I could, not only for myself and the family, but for the world."

It takes a lot of restraint on your part not to show any disgust towards the statement and callousness of the parent. Genius or no genius, there are some obligations that no child should be told they must fulfill. Childhood is still childhood, in one degree or another.

"That's a lot on the shoulders of one kid," you carefully observe, and start netting defense to brace for the queen.

The anger grows, undisguised.

"Yeah," he says. "I didn't too well with it at the time, either." Another pawn falls to the queen's devastation and you try to retreat, strengthen the hole in your left flank.

"My mom was always nice, though." he says, and suddenly the queen is suspiciously still. You notice Stark's eyes obliquely wavering towards the left bishop and make a note.

"How?"

Eyes get faraway. Stark distantly starts to smile.

"We'd cook. She'd take me to the zoo and put-put and arcades. When Pac-Man came out, I really sucked and it was freakish because my mom was an ultimate master at it. She'd always get these amazing scores and act like it was no big deal."

Beat.

"I mean, I had fun with my dad sometimes, too – in the summer we'd go to Los Alamos and on the Fourth of July, my father and I would sneak out around eight to go mess with fireworks. There was this salt-flat thing ten miles out of town and we'd stock up on all the illegal, dangerous and explosive fireworks we could find and set them off. Sometimes we'd make our own, too."

He _was _thinking of the bishop, and now he shuffles it forward.

"Otherwise, though, my dad and I always –" he raises two fists and knock them against each other, signifying "clashed." The knuckles clack, hollowly.

"That is unfortunate," you say, and try not to take satisfaction in the quick demise of Stark's bishop.

He nods, pauses, and then cocks his head to the side.

"What about you?"

Odd turn of events. It makes you nervous and you don't want to talk about the relationship between you and your son. It's not bad, but it's not what should be the focus of discussion.

But Stark is looking at you with that mix of curiosity and barely-veiled vulnerability. The man has told you something not many – if any – people have heard, and he wants you to acknowledge that.

You bite you lip for a minute, slide your last knight away from the threat of a lowly pawn.

"Jason has always been a good kid," you say. "Considerate, smart, sometimes a little misguided, but always a good person."

He hears something in the 'misguided' and smirks.

"Misguided?"

You scratch beneath your eye, wrinkle your nose.

"I busted him a few times in high school for trying marijuana. He'd come home smelling like a weed-factory and for some reason expect me to have no olfactory senses, whatsoever."

"He try alcohol?"

You think about that for a minute, shake your head.

"He probably did once or twice, but he had a really good friend die in a DUI incident junior year, and I think that slapped him straight."

Stark nods like he understands your story, but there is confusion written in the slight frown on his face.

It occurs to you that Anthony Stark, being an eight-year old in high school, never quite grew up and had the same rites of passage as his classmates. Too young to drink, too young to be spoken to about drugs, cliques, sex and jobs, he was lost – an old brain in a young body that no one really wanted to communicate with out of fear of being awkward and inappropriate. So when you talk to him about the average teenager's life, he can't understand it. Sure, he was a playboy once he turned twenty-one, but he's lost the valuable lessons most teenagers learn in the high school years.

You don't try explaining any further to him. It would only seem condescending to him and rude to you.

So you both are quiet. Silence rests on the board for a minute, interrupted only by the whispering sound of the felt undersides sliding over squares.

Stark wipes out a pawn and taps the murdered piece thoughtfully against the edge of the board.

"MIT wasn't too terrible." he says.

You raise an eyebrow.

"Really?"

He nods, then winces as you inch towards his leading bishop.

"There were a few uber-children there, around my age, and just as absurdly smart." His eyes glitter with amusement as he dances his bishop away from your grasp and continues talking. "We were still the abnormal egg-heads on the block, but since the group of us only had an age difference of two or three years, we all understood each other pretty well. Besides –" and as you're getting ready to pursue his bishop you see the trap and carefully back off, "– MIT is geek nirvana."

He's disappointed you're not taking the bait, instead nudging your rook out.

"You'll have to elaborate," you tell him.

He pauses, considers your move. A moment later, his queen bows out and thoughtfully retreats.

"There are cliques in MIT," Stark begins, "but for the most part everyone there is there because they love being geeks and nerds. They love math. They love science. They love blowing shit up and building stuff from scrap.

"Geeks (and nerds) connect over their love of geeky things," he continues. "Age doesn't matter. Looks don't matter. We just want to talk with each other about common interests."

You can't help it. He's leaving himself wide open for attack.

"Nerd love?" you ask, and yes, you are smirking.

His smile is wry but honest. "Yes, Doc. Nerd love. The best love education can buy."

You laugh at this. A short, evanescent sound that almost vanishes into the AC vent above the coffee table. Stark hears it, is surprised but pleased by it and the smile on his face grows wider.

"You laughed, good Doctor. This is a first."

You roll your eyes, point at the board.

"I want my knight back," you say.

Startled, Stark glances down.

A white pawn is nestled into a corner of his side of the playing field, disguised cleverly among the black beasts.

He blinks at it. Examines the move with his head titled to the right, then the left.

A pause. Appreciative nod.

"You're a clever old bastard, Doc." He still hasn't made a move to give a knight back to you.

You make a 'gimme' motion with an outstretched left hand. "The compliment is nice, Mr. Stark, but I want my knight back."

Grudgingly, he picks it up. "You're pushy, too."

You have to try hard not to look smug.

"It comes with being old," you inform him as you gingerly place the knight in position. "We geezers hone the craft of being aggressive."

He laughs this time, and, like yours, it is a quick bark of noise that vanishes into the hum of the AC.

The game continues, but instead of the stretched, nervous silence that has plagued your last four sessions, the quiet here is comfortable. Friendly. He curses lightly under his breath when you circle the king and, for a brief period of two minutes, have the noose around his neck. You grumble when he finally worms his way out of the trap, starts backtracking towards your own barricade and king.

He promotes two pawns into the bishop and knight you slaughtered earlier. Takes a pawn as an underpromotion just to spite you.

And then Anthony Stark glances up at the clock hanging over the doorway, and the light grin that's been gracing his lips the entire game vanishes.

"So, Doc."

You're stalking his queen, remain partially distracted. "Hmm?"

The queen turns, snarls. Eats the prowler pawn and spits it out contemptuously on the side of the board.

"Any last words?"

The question jolts you out of the lazy concentration you've had on the board and brings you back to the office, the client and the clock that tells you that only fifteen minutes are left.

And suddenly, you're disappointed. Actually unhappy that this is ending.

Both of you play wordlessly for five minutes before you clear your throat. An index finger resting on a rook freezes as Stark looks up.

"Despite what you believe is holding you back," you say, "you have the ability to go anywhere and do anything. It's cliched garbage, I know, but it's truth."

You're not paying attention; your knight stumbles into a ambush.

"You will make mistakes, Mr. Stark." You glance up from the board and stare at him. "You're not a playboy anymore, and this is the beginning of a life where you will have victories and losses."

He ignores the fact you've fallen into a net and instead pushes a pawn towards your king – killing time.

"The world isn't going to let you screw around," you say seriously, still thoughtful and stalling, just like him, with a pathetic jump by the knight. "You've taken a mantle that requires an enormous responsibility and you must understand what that means."

He looks unnerved by this, more frightened than enlightened.

You're not done.

"This doesn't mean you can't do it," you say, moving your gaze away from the playing field again. "This doesn't mean that you're going to fail and fall and never get up again.

"It only means that you will make mistakes. That you won't be perfect or the best or even loved by the public."

The chess board is frozen in time and place. You continue speaking.

"By telling the world who you are, you've created something larger than yourself. Whether they believe you or not, they've seen something so huge, so _different_ that they will be frightened.

"Accept this as the way humans are." You scoot a pawn forward, and yes, you _are _going towards that queen again. "Scared of what they don't understand and what they can't comprehend. Do not hate them for it. Do not fear them for it. Do the best you can do and hope and pray that that will change something."

His eyes are clear, but something resembling awe is slowly leaking at the corners.

"Your life is front of you, Mr. Stark." You stare at him fully now, straightening your back and folding your hands. "It will not be a straight road or even a clear one, but it will be there for you to pursue. Do it. Run with it. Acknowledge repercussions and conclusions but do not let them deter you. You were given a second chance. A third chance. Maybe even a forth chance. These are things you must accept gratefully and make the most of."

You stop. Sigh and bite the inside of your cheek.

The clock ticks, never ending.

"That's all I can tell you," you conclude, nodding slowly. "That's it."

Stark stares at you openly for a minute before he ricochets off, scanning the bookshelf, the desk, the peace lily, the chess board, the window.

A hand swipes across his eyes as he coughs and then his gaze stabilizes. Makes contact with you again.

"Checkmate, Doc." The tremor in his voice is faint.

You are surprised, and you smile softly, looking down at the board and the final trap that ensnared you.

It was a good one. A thoughtful creation that kept you thinking you had the upper hand for the longest time before making you realize that you were merely in the center of his palm, waiting to be crushed.

It was an excellent move. Much better than anything you could've done by trying to postpone the inevitable defeat and seeing how long you could last.

"Good job," you tell him finally, nodding.

The smile on his face is quiet, almost painful.

"Thank you, Doc."

"You're welcome, Mr. Stark."

* * *

After that, you help him put chess pieces back in that crappy box. You don't ask questions about why it is such a shoddy containment unit but he explains that this is a chess set he's had since he was thirteen – one he brought with him to camps and, finally, college. The weird, midget UHAUL box, well, it was the only thing he could find in his garage that could work, and he reasoned you wouldn't care too much.

You tell him he's basically right.

The final exchange is awkward and unpleasant for both of you. You both try to make it short and succinct, shaking hands and blinking away whatever's hiding behind your eyes, but it is difficult.

You hold the door for him when he leaves, and wave at him and the bodyguards as they slowly amble towards a corner.

He waves back.

* * *

Five years later, a heart attack kills you in your sleep; something so fast and brutal that your body only arches up briefly in bed with a gasp before you slump.

You'd be unhappy to know that the Wife didn't take it very well; it was only three weeks and you were going to be flying to Berlin for your anniversary.

But Jason comes the funeral. Jason and his kids and your brothers and sisters and the Wife's brothers and sisters.

Other people come, too – many of them, including over one hundred of your old clients and some neighbors and even the ex-intern Sophie and your old business partner.

Anthony Stark is there, but you don't know this – ashes in an urn that are about to be released into the ocean miles away from the filth of Los Angeles. He stands in a far corner of the procession with Pepper Potts close by and sunglasses on. Black suit. The only bodyguard is "Happy" Harold Hogan, who doesn't know you personally but shifts uncomfortably during the last words by your friends, family. Hogan has never liked funerals – most people don't enjoy them in the first place, but Harold Hogan, like Pepper Potts and Anthony Stark, has lost a lot of things in the never-ending assembly line from life to death.

Stark is more serious than from when you last saw him – the previous five years of his newfound responsibility have aged the man more than you'd ever like to know. He jokes still. Dorks around, casually flirts with Pepper Potts (though they have been having some actual, no-joke dates the past few months) and periodically asks Hogan if he wants to race cars or something.

But he is tired – the world is a menacing place and the road has not been easy for him.

After you sail up in the air – dust of a sixty-seven year-old man borne to the wind, the rain and the ocean – he approaches your wife and your son.

They both recognize him. He tells them as sincerely as possible how he knew you, how you helped him.

He hugs the Wife. Shakes the hand of your son tightly and nods to the somber relatives flanking the two.

And then Anthony Stark walks off, Pepper Potts and Harold "Happy" Hogan in tow.

He is silent on the way back to his house.

_Fin_


End file.
